Velut Praeteritus
by thisisforyou
Summary: "Infamia" 'verse. Mycroft would never have noticed that Gregory Lestrade had even arrived at the court were it not for his younger brother - a mistake that would have come to define his entire adult life. Because some people are meant to be together, even if it takes a ridiculous amount of time for them to admit it. Mycroft/Lestrade, M for smutty smut smut. COMPLETE.


**A/N: **To new readers, this is a promised follow-up to our colab fic _Infamia,_ set in Ancient Rome. It was written on the assumption that you have read _Infamia_, so even though you technically could read this first I wouldn't recommend it.

In other news, this turned out about five times longer and far more angsty and porny than we meant it to be, but we got carried away by the joys of the 'verse and of writing together again (and of kid!Sherlock). I (**thisisforyou**) did Lestrade this time, and **Mr_CSI** did Mycroft, although the prose was a far more collaborative process than last time and the author actually varies from sentence to sentence in places. The title sentimentally translates to _just like in the past_, though literally simply says _as past_.

Some terminology around the gladiators is explained in the end notes.

* * *

Mycroft would never have noticed that Gregory Lestrade had even arrived at the court were it not for his younger brother.

At the age of twelve, he already recognised that his distaste for the gladiatorial games was unusual, both in his family and in the city as a whole. He knew that when he was older he would have to pretend, to sit and watch and clap with the rest of the city, but for now childhood gave him an excuse to pay them as little attention as he could.

Sherlock, deplorably, had already memorised the different styles that the fighters apparently adopted, the different weapons associated with each style, and the strategic advantages and disadvantages that these provided. Mycroft, still being the person that his younger brother ran to when he had nothing to do, had surrendered a fair portion of his days to pretending to listen to breakdowns of the morning's fights and the particular fighters that their father had called into his personal arena.

On that particular morning the little boy had come sprinting around the corner into the room where Mycroft's tutor was studiously reciting the policies and personal quirks of every Emperor since the founding of Rome, babbling too fast for either of them to understand anything except the word 'gladiator'.

"I beg your pardon, Sherlock?"

His brother had stopped, looked at the tutor's disapproving expression, and schooled himself upright with a deep breath. "Forgive me for interrupting your lessons, Mycroft, Master Orbilius," he said with perfect diction. "Father's new gladiator has just arrived and I forgot myself in the excitement."

Mycroft smiled. Sherlock's ability to present himself so well at the age of five, despite the whirlwind of activity that he formed when left to his own devices, was one of Mycroft's proudest achievements. "Very good, Sherlock," he congratulated, smiling as the little boy beamed. "Find Mrs Hudson, and then after this lesson has finished we will go and meet him together, all right?"

He had looked forward to it only as a break from Orbilius' dry ramblings about things he already knew - he'd been studying the previous Emperors since he was old enough to understand that he would be one of them one day. The man hadn't been his tutor for very long, and he hadn't quite known how to react to the fact that Mycroft was a lot brighter than anyone expected. He had doggedly stuck to his original lesson plans for weeks before relaxing enough to improvise.

Sherlock had dragged him by the hand to the gladiators' quarters underneath the court's small arena, the amused Mrs Hudson following on behind. The boy had already formed his odd habit of latching on to people from unlikely places, and the woman who lived on the outskirts of the court and did washing for some of the Emperor's lesser officials was the one he was most attached to at the time. Mycroft had been worried that their father would disapprove of Sherlock's association with someone so lowly, but the Emperor simply seemed glad to have the boy out from underfoot.

Gregory Lestrade had been stowing something underneath his rickety cot when they turned up, so the first glimpse that Mycroft caught of the man had been his plain slave's toga stretched tight over an obviously-muscled backside. Already aware of his unusual sexual preferences, Mycroft had turned bright red and looked quickly away.

His younger brother had had no such worries. "_Lestrade!_" he had shouted, throwing himself against the bars that closed off the chamber and resting his head between them eagerly.

The gladiator had jumped and almost hit his head on the base of the cot as he scrambled to stand, took one look at Mycroft's jewel-pinned, purple-fringed toga and fallen onto one knee. "My Lord," he said quietly, averting his eyes. He was younger than Mycroft had expected, not yet quite twenty.

Sherlock had made a noise of frustration before Mrs Hudson nudged him and he quieted. Mycroft had cleared his throat, temporarily speechless from embarrassment. "You may stand," he permitted when his throat had unblocked itself. "My brother wished to meet the newest addition to his beloved arena."

"May we come in, please?" the little boy asked politely.

Lestrade looked slightly bewildered at the five year-old's manners, but he made an inviting gesture with his hands nonetheless. "Of course, my Lord."

Mycroft's brother made a face as he barged through the door. "Do not call me that. My name is Sherlock."

The poor man looked terrified, and Mycroft couldn't help but chuckle. "My brother has an extraordinary sense of propriety when it suits him, but that does not extend to the Emperor's gladiators. You will not be punished for anything he asks you to do. That said, please do not feel that you _must_ do everything he asks."

"Anthony says you fight as a Thraece. Can I see your sword?" Sherlock shouldered through again. Mycroft smiled at the gladiator, who tentatively returned it. He had a rather sweet, boyish smile. The future Emperor felt heat return to his cheeks.

"Of course, _Sherlock_," Lestrade replied, bending slightly to retrieve the wrapped blade from underneath his bed.

Mycroft perched awkwardly on the spindly chair in the corner while Sherlock fired question after question at the Thraece, all of which the man answered with more good humour than Mycroft had expected of a trained fighter. If he perhaps lingered longer than he had allowed for, caught up in the gladiator's deep, dark eyes and easy voice, his tutor knew better than to acknowledge it.

* * *

Gregory Lestrade liked to pretend to Sherlock that he didn't notice his elder brother's somewhat dramatic growing up, but both of them knew that even at the age of eleven Sherlock Holmes was smarter than that.

Mycroft had been a quiet, polite child, and he grew into a quiet, polite teenager. Lestrade could still see the reserved boy who had brought Sherlock to him on his first day in court in the way he moved and smiled, but the wry humour that he had displayed in his manner that day barely returned. For a while after that first day he was sure that the elder Holmes boy was avoiding him on purpose, always sending the servant Mrs Hudson to fetch Sherlock instead of coming himself as he had then. But, he supposed, Mycroft would be Emperor one day, and he didn't have the time to concern himself with one gladiator.

His father did, though; Mr Holmes was a stern, sombre person, but he watched his gladiators train at least once a week and often stopped to speak to them individually, enquiring as to their health and their happiness at court. Lestrade always replied that he was very well and extremely happy, and after a few years of juggling Sherlock and the arena it actually stopped being a lie. His dreams of buying back his freedom from the men who had driven his father into debt and sold him to the arena faded, replaced by the day-to-day excitement of life with Sherlock Holmes.

The Emperor's youngest son grew just as quickly, and like his brother his nature remained more or less the same: Sherlock at ten was only slightly more composed than he had been at five, still blazing from one entertainment to the next like a thunderstorm, still fascinated with the arena and, unbelievably, with Lestrade himself. As his eleventh birthday crept closer, their games of strategy and hypothetical battles turned into discussion of actual combat tactics, until he longed to put a gladius in the boy's hand and begin coaching him on the technique itself.

Mycroft Holmes had quickly outgrown whatever it was that had made him avoid Lestrade in the early days, and so it was the future Emperor himself that Lestrade approached when he came to collect his brother from the arena. "If I might have a word alone, my Lord?" he asked carefully, keeping his eyes downcast lest the boy consider him too bold.

Sherlock had snorted in disgust, but after a moment's hesitation his brother had nodded at the man who had followed him into the arena. "Take Sherlock outside and wait for me there," he instructed coolly.

While the elder Holmes brother's manner had not changed much in the last six years, his body had not followed it. Of course Lestrade had noticed the broadening of his shoulders, the lengthening and darkening of his hair until it fell into his eyes in the fashion of young Roman men, the shape of his legs in the summer when his togas shortened. He had grown into a comfortably handsome young man, confident as though he simply did not care what people thought of his looks. Simply being observed by the teenager made Lestrade feel rough and ugly and clumsy.

"My Lord, I… it is Sherlock's birthday next week," he stammered, cursing the way his words could not leave his mouth with the cool smoothness that the boy's own seemed to.

Mycroft's mouth twitched up into a tiny smile. "Yes, I am aware," he commented dryly. "He seems terrified that I will forget, and reminds me at least once a day."

Lestrade chuckled. "Well, I wish to - as a slave, I have nothing material that I might gift to him."

"Oh, I am certain Sherlock does not expect a gift from you, Lestrade," the teen assured him.

He smiled. "Forgive me, your Excellency, but Sherlock expects things from everyone. Gifts especially."

The future Emperor actually laughed, throwing Lestrade momentarily off-guard. Even a genuine smile was a rare thing from him. A bold laugh was like a gift in itself. "You know my brother so well," he commented.

Lestrade grinned. "I hope so, after so long. What I wished to ask, my Lord, was whether your father would allow me to begin to teach him the basic techniques around fighting with a gladius." Mycroft frowned, so Lestrade launched into his justifications with barely a pause. "Only the basics, you understand - and only in a carefully controlled environment. He will never be in any danger of being hurt, and I will not allow him to remove a gladius from the arena. You know Sherlock, my Lord; he dives headfirst into things without thought for the danger in them. A little training in self-defence would benefit him greatly in this."

Mycroft was silent for a moment, still frowning. "I agree that from a practical perspective a basic knowledge of swordplay would suit him. As a birthday gift, he would adore the opportunity - Sherlock has wanted to learn to fight since he was old enough to recognise what it was. But I wonder if this would make him _too _enthusiastic? I have always believed that he over-romanticises the arena."

"Perhaps sore muscles and a few self-inflicted bruises will disabuse him of this notion, my Lord," Lestrade suggested, smiling.

The Emperor's son smiled back. "Perhaps," he agreed. "I will bring it to Father. I doubt he will raise any objections if_ I_ do not, especially after he agreed to that little outdoor excursion between the two of you last week."

Lestrade grinned. He and Sherlock had spent an entire day the previous week wandering the streets of Rome on some whim of the eleven year-old's, inspecting the carts of every fishmonger they could find.

Mycroft made as if to move away, and then paused. "I… I would like to thank you, Lestrade," he said hesitantly.

He waited patiently, but no more was forthcoming; the teen looked as though he was struggling to find the words with which to express his thoughts. Considering that Mycroft Holmes was more eloquent than all the adults Lestrade knew, he almost dreaded the sentiment to follow. "For what, my Lord?" he asked anyway.

"For looking after Sherlock. Befriending him. No-one but Mrs Hudson and myself has ever made that effort before. I know that he can be… difficult to deal with."

Lestrade smiled again. "Not at all, my Lord," he disagreed, wondering if it was polite to contradict him so boldly. "He is simply a little overactive. Once he has something to occupy his mind, he is a delightful and more or less pleasant child."

Mycroft smiled tightly at his use of the phrase _more or less_. Lestrade returned the expression. "Very well," the elder Holmes said slowly, twisting his hands together in an uncharacteristically nervous gesture. "I would like to keep an eye on this training of yours, though - perhaps I might call on you when you are not training or with Sherlock and discuss his progress with you?"

He tried not to look too elated, but he wasn't sure that the prospect didn't light up his face like the beacons along the Tiber. "Of course, my Lord," he replied. Mycroft's hands continued to twist, and for some reason the teenager's nerves made Lestrade dangerously bold. "I would like that very much."

The future Emperor flushed scarlet, and Lestrade knew he had guessed right.

* * *

Mycroft suspected right from the start that encouraging further one-on-one contact with Gregory Lestrade was a bad idea.

Every third word that echoed from Sherlock's mouth was a childishly excited _Lestrade; _Mycroft heard the name so often that it began to repeat itself in his dreams, to far more interesting backgrounds. He woke up panting amid sticky sheets more than he would care to admit, images of the gladiator's face hovering over his own still fading from his mind.

Possibly the worst part was knowing that he _could_ have Lestrade; he was the Emperor's son, if he commanded one of the court slaves to please him the penalty for refusing would be death. His father would certainly not approve of his choice of bedmate, but he was certain that the gladiator would not allow the matter to get that far. A few quiet words and he could have the arenarius in his bed, stroking his chest and shifting their hips together exactly the way he imagined.

But he knew that it wouldn't be worth the abuse of power. He knew that no matter how close or otherwise to his fantasies Lestrade managed to be, there would be something behind his dutifully erected passion that betrayed the fact that he had been forced to be there, that he did not actually feel the blinding desire that Mycroft himself had trouble hiding.

The problem was that it wasn't_ just_ the blinding desire. It was the way the older man took care of Sherlock, so diligently and affectionately. If he had warmed to his belligerent and overenthusiastic younger brother, was it so much to hope that he could warm to Mycroft, too? Lestrade was good-natured and good-humoured, appreciating Mycroft's dry, subtle sense of humour in a way no-one else seemed to. He wanted to simply be able to sit and talk with him, laugh at the few jokes he dared to make, slowly coach him into being comfortable with him.

So he had suggested they meet to discuss Sherlock, despite the fact that after six years he trusted Lestrade to train his younger brother without corrupting him. Regular one-on-one meetings with the gladiator were a mixed blessing: being so close without being able to do anything about his longing, laughing and chatting with him without being able to kiss him goodbye at the end of it.

He made a point of never asking anything personal of the slave, and so it came as a surprise to him when Sherlock dashed into his chambers only three weeks after they had begun their arrangement, singing loudly that it was Lestrade's birthday.

It ought not to have mattered, but it did. He supposed that that was when he knew - when the thought of missing such an opportunity to do something sentimental, to show the gladiator that he cared while veiled in tradition in case the gesture was entirely unwelcome, worried him so much - that this had become the most important thing in his life.

He had sprinted straight to the court's finest seamstress and told her what he wanted, but even so it was almost midnight before he could take it to the arena and sneak past the cages filled with snoring gladiators. Lestrade was still awake, sitting up in his cot staring out of the tiny window into the night. Mycroft had known he would be.

"Happy birthday," he said quietly.

The Thraece jumped minutely, one hand stretching underneath the cot to where Mycroft knew he kept his sword, but then stopped when he recognised Mycroft's silhouette. "My Lord," he said instead, surprise heavy in his voice. "I… thank you."

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, his gift clutched tightly behind his back. "May I come in?"

Lestrade's smile was visible in the soft light from the moon through the window. "Of course, my Lord." Mycroft knew that he would be within his rights as a member of the Imperial family to enter a slave's bedchamber without asking, but the last thing that he wanted to do was to reinforce the arbitrary power difference between them. And besides, every time he asked permission to enter Lestrade's cage it made the other man smile.

"Thank you," he said graciously, stepping inside and sliding the bars closed as quietly as he could. "I apologise for not asking when your birthday was," he continued, taking the spindly chair when the gladiator gestured to it. "I only learned it was today because Sherlock announced it rather loudly this morning."

Lestrade sat back down on his cot slowly. "I am flattered that my birthday is something you wish to remember, my Lord," he said softly.

Mycroft frowned. "Of course it is," he insisted. "Look at what you did for Sherlock's birthday. I… I like you, Lestrade. I can almost forget that you are here because of a sport that I wish to have nothing to do with, because talking to you seems so ordinary and comfortable."

There was silence for a moment, such a long one that Mycroft worried that he had said too much, that the gladiator was laughing at him under the cover of his careful face. Then Lestrade sighed in what Mycroft thought was something akin to content. "Thank you, my Lord. Your entire family has been nothing like I expected. I never expected to feel _at home_ anywhere after I was bought by the Circus. I do not wish to sound presumptuous above my station, my Lord, but I share your sense of comfort in your company, and you are perhaps the last place I expected to find companionship."

He swallowed. "My sentiments exactly," he said, embarrassed at the sudden high pitch of his voice. "I… I had this made for you. You are a godly man, but I noticed that you had no tokens of worship in your chamber."

Lestrade took the fabric when Mycroft handed it to him, staring down at it in the half-light. For some reason, he looked unreasonably embarrassed. "Are you all right? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, my Lord, it is beautiful," the gladiator replied. "I only… forgive me, but I… I cannot read, my Lord. Is it a prayer?"

Mycroft flushed scarlet, cursing himself. Of _course_ Lestrade could not read - how could he have missed that? When would anyone have taught a young gladiator - a _slave_ - to read? He had just done the very thing he was trying so hard not to do: draw stark attention to the fact that they came from opposite ends of society, that Mycroft was so high-born it didn't even occur to him that some people were not taught to read in childhood. "I am _so_ sorry," he apologised, watching with horror the way Lestrade's body language was closing off the way it had before they had started spending time with one another. "I did not think, Lestrade, please forgive me. It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable." The gladiator smiled at him, but it was a weak, false smile. "It is a line from a poem by Ovid," he elaborated desperately. "A prayer to Mars to keep the character safe - _Mars, be by my side and satiate cold steel with guilt's blood, and lend Your favour to the better side. If I am victorious, for You I will build a shrine, and call you Ultor, Mars the Avenger._"

The Thraece smiled again. "Thank you, my Lord," he said softly. "I will hang it in the morning."

He could recognise the dismissal in those words, and so he turned to leave, feeling thoroughly dejected. He was at the door by the time the thought occurred to him. "Would you like me to teach you?" he asked suddenly.

Lestrade frowned bewilderedly at him. "Excuse me, my Lord?" he asked.

Mycroft fidgeted with an edge of his toga. "To read. I could teach you to read, if you like. To thank you for teaching Sherlock swordplay."

Silence reigned again. He wondered if he hadn't simply pushed his foot even deeper into his mouth until Lestrade smiled and said, "I would like that, my Lord."

* * *

He didn't need Sherlock to tell him the reason for his brother's sudden interest in teaching Lestrade how to read.

Of course, Sherlock _did_ tell him, loudly and several times, with an expression akin to disgust at the thought, but he had realised it as soon as he had seen the younger boy outside his chambers on his birthday. Mycroft Holmes felt the same way that he did - the future Emperor of Rome _wanted_ him, and not just his body but _him_.

Not that knowing that made it easier. It was still a million levels above his station to mention it, certainly to do anything about it. All it really meant was that now Lestrade had to sit at a table opposite the boy and try to pay attention to the symbols he was engraving on a tablet and not the way his hair fell over his inscrutable eyes and _know_ that when he finally did look down at the tablet the young man's eyes would fix longingly on his own face.

Mycroft was so unbearably upright that it was often difficult to resist the urge to force a reaction out of him - to just leap across the table and kiss him until his hair was mussed and his toga askew - especially when he knew that such a reaction might not be unwelcome. But he couldn't just jump on the Emperor's son, so he sat on his hands and tried to focus on his letters instead.

It was unreasonably difficult. Mycroft explained things in such unusual ways - ways that made sense when he explained them, but Lestrade would never have thought of himself - that only highlighted how singular his mind was, and every time one of them looked up to find the other already watching them, the teenager's sharp tongue would poke out slightly to wet his lips nervously and Lestrade would have to forcibly restrain himself.

Lestrade had lived his entire life neither wanting nor needing to learn to read and write, but it was obviously making Mycroft happy for him to learn, and so he buried himself in the letters and actually found himself enjoying it beyond the simple pleasures of the younger boy's company. Within a few weeks he could painstakingly read the prayer he had affixed above his bed and was already thinking his way through all the poetry he knew to find something with which he could repay the future Emperor. In the end, though, and perhaps predictably, it was Sherlock who provided him with the solution.

"Would it not be easier to present him with your own writing?" the boy asked him, poking gingerly at a bruise on his arm he had sustained in the afternoon's sword training session. "Mycroft knows a lot of poetry already."

He had thought of this before, of course. Surely the son of the Emperor would know all the poetry that he knew, and more besides. If he could not present him with something new, it would have to be something _perfect_, and he did not have Sherlock's knack for knowing how things would be received. "I could not write anything half so beautiful as the poetry he already knows," he protested. If he ever tried to write poetry it would be laughable.

Sherlock snorted at the thought. "If Mycroft wanted beautiful, he would not be so pathetically enamoured with you," he said practically.

Lestrade poked him vindictively in a fading bruise on his side, making the boy yelp and wriggle away from him on the stone bench they were sat on. He had a point, though, he had to grudgingly admit. Mycroft may be from a world of poetry and finery, but he had chosen to divert a fair amount of his time to teaching a lowly gladiator how to read and write. Perhaps the best way to express his gratitude was to write it down.

_Thank you_

He worried a little over how to address the teen; _my Lord_ was what he called him, what he _ought_ to call him, and yet he wanted something more personal to reflect the way they acted around each other when no-one was watching them. Of course, there was a possibility Mycroft's father would read this, but then he didn't believe that Mycroft had told his father that he was teaching a gladiator to read at all, so it was more likely that he would hide it from him. It didn't seem like a _proper_ thing to do, which really made it even more extraordinary that he had decided so impulsively to do it.

_Thank you, Mycroft, for teaching me to read and write. I very much _

"How is _appreciate_ written?" Lestrade asked, his stylus hovering over the tablet as he looked up.

Sherlock rolled his eyes from where he lounged in a dramatic impression of boredom on Lestrade's cot, but obligingly recited the correct letters and watched as he inscribed them in the soft wax. "Why am I helping you?" the boy sighed, throwing a hand over his eyes as though the idea made him ill. "You are preparing a gift for _Mycroft_. It is not even his birthday."

Lestrade shrugged. "Saturnalia is only a sevennight away," he excused. He supposed it was as good an occasion as any. "And you are doing it for me, not for your brother, if it makes you feel better."

"How is that supposed to make me feel _better_?" the boy objected loudly. "The fact that you wish to present Mycroft with a gift at all makes me feel ill, let alone the effort you are currently putting into its _sentiment_." Lestrade chuckled. Sherlock sat up, frowning heavily. "Why do you like him so much?" he asked.

Lestrade sighed, putting down his stylus. "Because he is kind and friendly and companionable when he has no reason to be. Because he is staggeringly intelligent and his mind works in such unusual and fantastic ways. Because I feel comfortable with him, even though he is the last place I should expect to find comfort." He looked up at Sherlock's frown and grinned at it. "Because he is like you," he finished firmly, "only polite."

The eleven year-old's frown deepened. "Would you like me better if I was more polite?" he asked.

For a moment, he actually thought about what Sherlock would be like if he was more like his brother. He shook his head. "Then you would not be like you," he told him. "I would wonder what had happened to you."

"But you like Mycroft more than you like me," the younger Holmes persisted, his lips pooching into the smallest of pouts.

Lestrade almost laughed, but the serious expression on the boy's face stopped the sound in his throat. "Of course not," he assured him seriously. "I only like you for different reasons than I like him. If all of my friends were the same, I would have a very boring life, would I not?"

Sherlock's face did not soften, but his lips twitched a little. "I suppose," he said slowly.

"You were my first friend," Lestrade reassured him. "My first friend in a very long time. I am not about to forget that, so no matter how much I grow to like your brother, you will always be important to me."

It felt odd, having to reassure an eleven year-old from the Imperial line that he would always be his friend, but the tentative smile that spread across Sherlock's face warmed his heart nonetheless. Sherlock was a lot _easier_ to like, he supposed. He knew the majority of the people around the court did not, but that was simply because they had not seen him the way that Lestrade had, feverish with excitement and passion. Mycroft kept all his emotions clutched tightly to his chest, and while that made him more diplomatic around the court, it made him harder to genuinely _like_. But Lestrade had seen a different side to him, too, one that made him want to take the time to unpick those tightly-woven defences and enjoy the person underneath.

Lestrade returned his smile, then turned back to his tablet. "Now," he continued as though nothing had happened. "How do I write 'extraordinary'?"

* * *

_Thank you, Mycroft, for teaching me to read and write. I very much appreciate the effort that you have made to this end, as I never understood the pleasure that could come from reading until I could do it myself. You have introduced me to the most extraordinary worlds that I never knew existed in the works of Ovid and Socrates. The prayer that you gave me on my birthday hangs above my bed and I read it every night before I retire. I believe that it does keep me safe in the arena, along with the knowledge that if I were killed or seriously injured I would never spend time with you and your brother again. I hope that this display of the skill you have taught me pleases you. You have changed my life, and for that I will always be grateful. _

_Gregory_

Mycroft looked up at the gladiator, trying to swallow around the sudden tightness in his throat. "That… Lestrade, that is beautiful," he said, his voice sounding strained.

Lestrade smiled awkwardly. "Thank you, my Lord," he said quietly, shifting from foot to foot. "I thought of writing poetry or prayer, but I do not know any that would be good enough."

"No," Mycroft said, shaking his head quickly. "This is perfect. This is exactly why I taught you the way that I did, with all of those nonsensical sentences. I wished you to be able to express _yourself_, not copy the expressions of another." The gladiator smiled again. Mycroft's stomach swooped uncomfortably as he looked back down at the engraving and noted the use of both of their first names. There was something about the idea of his given name in the gladiator's rough voice that was endlessly enticing, and he wondered whether he could persuade the older man to say it aloud. "You… called yourself Gregory," he noted instead, not wanting to frighten the gladiator with any suggestion of impropriety. "Is that what you wish me to call you?"

The arenarius grinned brightly. "It is, my Lord," he said, ducking his head. "Forgive my presumption, but you are a friend to me, and I like my friends to use my given name."

He could not help but smile back just as brightly. "I understand, Gregory," he replied happily. The name felt novel on his tongue, but he liked the sound of it. It suited the stocky warrior perfectly. He looked at the engraving again, letting the words sink in once more. "I did not teach you some of these words," he said wonderingly.

Lestrade blushed. "Sherlock helped me a little with how to arrange the letters," he admitted.

Mycroft stared at him. "_Sherlock_ helped you? With _writing_ - with something for _me_?"

The gladiator laughed. "He insisted on telling me that he was doing it for me, and not for you. I think he worries that I favour you over him, and wishes to prove himself indispensable to me so that I will not forget him. I took great pains to assure him that no matter how fond I am of you, I will always make time for him."

His mouth twitched into another smile at the thought of Sherlock displaying such insecurity. He liked to act as though he had grown up, but eleven year-old Sherlock was still a child. Although, the fact that he was worried that Lestrade - _Gregory_ - might start spending more time with Mycroft than with him confirmed Mycroft's own thoughts about the amount of time they spent together. He stepped forwards shyly. "_Are_ you fond of me?" he asked, even though they both knew the answer.

Lestrade grinned. "Very, my Lord," he assured him, watching Mycroft's hands as they deposited the engraving on the table beside them and leaning forwards as though the motion was unconscious. "You _pretend_. I am aware that you know every nuance of my feelings towards you."

Mycroft licked his lips nervously. _I believe I do_, he thought to himself, _but what if I am wrong?_ "I also like my friends to call me by my given name," he ventured, almost holding his breath in case the man refused.

He looked shocked for only a moment, before years of slavery schooled his face back into a neutral expression. Mycroft bunched his toga into his hands so tightly he almost tore it as the silence stretched on. Then the gladiator seemed to make a decision, and smiled. "I understand," he imitated. "_Mycroft."_

A tiny gasp broke free of Mycroft's lips. He had expected to have a reaction to his name in the voice he dreamed about, perhaps a frisson of interest from stomach to groin. Instead, his entire body had lit up as though someone had put a torch to his feet, and before he had time to get his body back under control he had staggered the last two steps forward in order to press his lips against the chapped ones from which his name had just rumbled.

He realised what he had done as soon as it was too late to stop himself and their lips were touching, pressing together hard and desperate, his hands sliding into thick chestnut hair, his body singing even as his mind erupted into panic.

Quickly, Mycroft pulled back, disentangling the many points of contact that his body had established with the older man's. He meant to apologise, meant to back off at least for long enough to ascertain how welcome or otherwise the kiss had been, meant to calm down enough to be gentle if Lestrade indicated that he wouldn't mind being kissed again.

Instead, he backed off just enough to get a clear view of the gladiator, his lips glistening and red, eyes wide with shock, cheeks flushing red, and the mere sight of him elicited a groan from somewhere deep inside Mycroft's chest and he dove back in again, pressing closed lips hard against the other man's.

He was the son of the Emperor. He'd been trying so hard to avoid using that authority like this, but he_ needed_ Lestrade. He pressed and pushed, forcing his body on the arenarius, winding a hand back into his soft hair and clutching at his hip with the other.

Softly, Lestrade's hands rose to his face and began to push him away. Mycroft clung tighter to him, but the gladiator was stronger than he was and eventually their lips parted once more. Mycroft opened his mouth to argue, to _order_ Lestrade to submit to the kiss, but the older man merely rested their foreheads together. He was actually _smiling_.

"_Gently_," he whispered against Mycroft's lips, and then he tilted his head slightly and parted his lips before touching them to his own once more, and this was so much better, more coordinated, as Lestrade shifted his lips, opening and closing them around Mycroft's, one hand slipping from his jaw to hold him close around the small of his back.

Mycroft melted against him. Every one of his fantasies had involved the gladiator being in control, kissing him hard and overwhelming his body; now that Lestrade had shifted his clumsy attempts at kissing into _this_, it was even better than he'd imagined. The gladiator's lips closed around the slight swell of Mycroft's lower lip and tugged slightly, letting him feel the tiny scrape of teeth.

"_Please_, Gregory," he whined the moment his lips were relinquished enough to speak, and the gladiator made the slightest of growling noises and clutched his back tighter. Mycroft revelled in the disparities between their bodies, his own thin and brittle and almost swallowed by the warrior's stockier, broader, more _solid_ embrace.

Lestrade darted out his tongue, sweeping it between Mycroft's lips, then released him completely. "Sweet Venus, yes," he replied, before tightening his fingers in Mycroft's hair and pulling him in again. Mycroft sighed in contentment and the older man took advantage of his parted lips to slip his tongue _between_ them and flick it expertly against his teeth.

Mycroft's legs gave way underneath him, the tightening of one strong hand on his back the only thing keeping him upright. Lestrade's lips curled into a smile even as they devoured his own.

_Gently_ seemed not to be so important as they progressed, Lestrade's tongue pushing through his mouth as forcefully as he would push through the crowds at a parade, his hands firmly holding them together as Mycroft clutched helplessly at him and held on. The gladiator was pressing against him so relentlessly that before long Mycroft had to take a step back to avoid falling over, and then another, and then another until his back bumped against the wall.

He hadn't paid attention to the rest of his body since the kissing began, so overwhelmed by the sensations the kissing was causing, so it was something of a shock to have Lestrade back him against the wall and grind his hips down against Mycroft's and discover that he was terribly, achingly hard. A startlingly loud moan smothered itself against the arenarius' lips.

Lestrade repeated the rolling motion of his hips and Mycroft realised with a thrill that he was just as hard as Mycroft himself, his calloused hands clutching with something akin to desperation at his purple-fringed toga and shifting, sliding restlessly across his chest and down until his perfect fingers were playing _so lightly_ over the throbbing mess of Mycroft's groin.

"Can I…" the young gladiator stumbled over his words, pressing them against Mycroft's cheek like a gift. "_Mycroft, _please, can I touch you?"

He could barely believe that the older man was _asking_ him if it was all right, this thing that he had wanted for so long. _"Yes, _Jupiter, yes," he gasped out quickly, grabbing Lestrade's hands in his own and tugging them closer to where he wanted them. "You, as well, I wish to touch you -"

Lestrade groaned into the hollow at the base of Mycroft's throat. "Bacchus, yes," he pleaded, his hands venturing sensuously down Mycroft's thighs and lifting the fringe of his toga when they climbed back up, sliding callouses over his hips and skating right over his loincloth before tickling his chest and thumbing at his nipples. Mycroft moaned again, rocking his hips and artlessly shoving Lestrade's toga around his waist in order to palm at the sizeable bulge in his loincloth.

"Oh, Bacchus," the man whimpered again. His thigh found its way between Mycroft's legs, making their desperate rocking _infinitely_ better. Mycroft wasn't certain he could _move_ his own legs, so he pulled apart the fabric of Lestrade's loincloth and put his hand there instead, watching transfixed as the older gladiator groaned and pushed his hips against him, somehow freeing his arousal from the fabric at his groin at the same time so that Mycroft could both stare at it freely and take hold of it with his bare hand, feeling the heat and the throbbing of blood echoed in his own loincloth.

He knew it was painfully obvious that he'd never done this, especially since it was equally clear that the other man _had_; he dragged the rough parts of his fingers quite precisely over Mycroft's belly and dipped them underneath the top of his loincloth, just enough to make him shiver at the sensation, gasping into their kiss. Lestrade's lips curled into a slightly smug grin against his own and his hands pulled the ties on his undergarments just loose enough to yank them down to Mycroft's mid-thigh and free his member to the air and the gladiator's dark eyes.

Lestrade's breath left him in a huff, as though Mycroft's erect penis was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. He swore again, his tone soft. Mycroft shyly ran a hand through the soft strands of chestnut hair and pulled their lips together once more.

He had begun a tentative sort of stroking motion up and down the length in his hand, but as soon as Lestrade's large hands closed around his arousal he forgot his own rhythm and cried out, breaking the kiss in order to slam his head painfully against the stone wall behind him. Lestrade chuckled, starting up a confident stroke. Mycroft could feel the callous on the inside of his thumb as he stroked; his mind helpfully pointed out that to be able to feel that so prominently, the warrior must be holding his penis with the same grip that he held his gladius.

_"Fuck,_" Mycroft swore. He didn't think he'd ever said the word aloud before; his father would probably punish him if he knew that Mycroft knew it. He had learned it from Sherlock, and Minerva knew where he'd learned it from.

It had an interesting effect on Lestrade, who leaned against him with a low noise, pushing his hips so that his arousal slid through Mycroft's loose grip, reminding him that he had intended to give _and_ receive. It was difficult to focus on both.

Seeming to realise his difficulties, Lestrade used his free hand to take Mycroft's away from his penis and lick a long stripe up his palm; Mycroft watched avidly as he removed his other hand and repeated the process. "Like this," he said lowly, and then he pushed their hips together and wrapped his hand around both of them at the same time.

Mycroft cried out again; this was _so _different from anything he could do on his own, not only the sensations caused by the hot, hard _throbbing_ prick squeezed alongside his own but the knowledge and the _idea_ of Lestrade, the first person to see him for what he was and _like_ it, enjoying it as well. He brought his own wet hand to join the gladiator's, his long pale fingers linking with the sun-browned, strong ones. Even their hands were completely different, but at that moment they _felt_ the same.

The thought was so fantastic that he shouted the Thraece's name and climaxed, his fingers tightening uncontrollably around them, his body thrashing in Lestrade's grip as his vision whited out in pleasure. He trembled and shook with it, his free hand scrabbling roughly at Lestrade's back.

When he came down, it was to the awareness that the gladiator was still panting harshly, his hand still guiding Mycroft's, his prick still magnificently hard. He wondered whether he ought to be embarrassed at having finished so quickly. Or had Lestrade simply not wanted this as much as he had, not been so overwhelmed by it?

He tightened his hand again nonetheless, biting his lip to keep in the endearments he wasn't sure it was okay to let out, allowing Lestrade to quicken the pace until he gasped into Mycroft's neck and spurted into their hands. The sight of him losing control made Mycroft's spent penis twitch once more and another curse escape his lips.

"Fuck," he breathed, trying to slow his breath.

Lestrade laughed weakly. "I am surprised that you even know that word, _my Lord_," he said, pressing a sucking kiss to the base of his neck.

Mycroft's stomach sank further at the reminder of his status. He thought that he had heard the hint of a tease in the title, but it didn't change what it meant: Lestrade still thought of him as a superior, would _always_ think of him as a superior. _Because that is what I am_, he reminded himself. And what would his father say if he found out - what would_ anyone_ say if they found out what their future Emperor did with his slaves? He could tell when someone was enjoying himself and he knew that Lestrade had _wanted_ him, knew that if he had felt uncomfortable at any point he would have said so. Lestrade had _begged_ to be permitted to touch him. He _hadn't_ forced the gladiator to do anything.

_But I would have_, he thought dejectedly, pushing the other man off him in case he was about to vomit. _If he had refused me, I would have forced him. I would have ordered him to please me, and he would have hated me for it. _

_"_Are you all right?" Lestrade asked him, raising a concerned hand to his face.

Mycroft batted him away. "I apologise," he said, stepping away from the wall, preparing to run for it and almost falling over as he forgot about his undergarments still shoved halfway down his legs. He yanked them up irritably. "I did not mean for this to… I am sorry, Lestrade, please forgive me."

The gladiator stared at him, looking utterly bewildered as Mycroft fixed his clothing, wincing at the cooling semen on his chest but having nothing but his toga to wipe it off with. "Forgive you for what? Mycroft -"

"_Please_, do not," he spat. Tears welled up behind his eyes and he blinked them away furiously.

No matter what he did, one day Lestrade would refuse him. And the more he let the Thraece indulge him, the harder it would be to stop, to give him up, and the more likely he would be in his desperation to ruin everything.

"Forgive me, Gregory," he said one last time, picking up his thank-you letter from the table. "I cannot do this."

It would be better for everyone if he stopped this now.

* * *

Mycroft stayed carefully out of his sight for twenty-eight days.

He was not stupid enough to pretend he wasn't counting them, and even if he had not, on the twenty-ninth day Sherlock reminded him that he, too, had been counting.

"You have not spoken to Mycroft for twenty-nine days," he mentioned, frowning heavily even as he reset his stance at a look from Lestrade. "Did you fight with him?"

Lestrade sighed, lowering his own sword and physically readjusting Sherlock's feet and pushing on his shoulder until he bent his knees further. "Lean forwards more," he commanded. "I think _he_ has certainly fought with _me_ - though I am not certain what I did to upset him."

That wasn't entirely true, but the alternative frightened him. He had taken control of their encounter once it had become clear that the younger boy had no experience: what if Mycroft felt that he had forced him? He had never showed any indication of wanting to stop, but that did not mean that he wouldn't feel angry or upset about seeming so helpless afterwards. Perhaps he had expected that after the roles they had taken during that one incident, Lestrade would wish to take control in other ways, perhaps even penetrate him. Maybe he even _wanted_ him to, and that frightened him. The future Emperor should not want to be seduced, to submit sexually to a _slave_, and an older, stronger one at that.

Perhaps he had frightened the boy away.

"Hold that stance," he told Sherlock to distract himself. "This is what you should return to every time there is a break in combat so that you are ready to attack or defend once more. If you stand with straight knees and your feet together, if someone attempts to attack you then you will unbalance and fall over."

Sherlock pouted. "I have difficulty holding this position," he admitted. "It hurts my thighs."

Lestrade smiled. "Nothing worthwhile is ever easy," he reminded the boy. "The first thing that my trainer told me when I began was that if it does not hurt, you are not doing it correctly. Does that make you want to stop this?" He meant the question as a tease only; he knew that the prospect would not put Sherlock off.

True to form, the boy only smirked. "Unlike my brother, I am not afraid of hard work," he said, bouncing in his stance the way Lestrade had taught him.

He could not prevent his face from falling. "Do you think that is what I was to him? _Hard work_? And that is why he has now chosen to disassociate himself with me?"

Sherlock frowned. "How could you be hard work?" he asked. Lestrade smiled at the knowledge that the boy was completely genuine in his puzzlement. He shrugged. "I can ask him, if you like."

But the younger Holmes returned from his brother's chambers with an even bigger frown. "He shouted at me when I asked," he said, sounding rather forlorn at the admission. "Mycroft _never_ shouts at me."

"I am sorry, Sherlock," Lestrade told him. He hadn't meant for Sherlock to get hurt in the process. "Perhaps we had better leave him alone."

He grew used to the avoidance in the months that followed, used to entering a room just in time to see the future Emperor leaving it, to faceless guards and court officials accompanying Sherlock to the gladiatorial bouts and training sessions instead of the familiar well-groomed auburn hair and thin-lipped smile. He watched Mycroft grow into an upright, diplomatic young man from afar, and did not so much as receive an opportunity to speak to him again for four years.

In the absence of his brother, Lestrade filled his life with Sherlock; the younger Holmes seemed to regard him as some kind of entertainment device, an opinion apparently supported by the Emperor.

He suspected that it was Sherlock's regard for him that played the vital part in the circumstances of his next prolonged audience with Mycroft Holmes.

The court's lanista was dismissed when Lestrade was thirty. The man was old, his hair steadily turning to white, but it was the Emperor's attendance at one of Sherlock's swordplay sessions that had cemented the dismissal. Fifteen year-old Sherlock had become confident and proficient with the _gladius_; Lestrade encouraged him to spar with the other gladiators as well as himself, and when he had outright beaten the ageing lanista the Emperor had almost laughed himself sick.

Lestrade was called to the Emperor's study the following day and was surprised to find that the ruler was flanked by both his sons, sitting at opposite ends of a sofa and glaring at each other. Mycroft Holmes took occasional breaks from glaring at his younger brother in order to turn the scathing expression on Lestrade himself, making him fidget uncomfortably.

"You wished to speak to me, your Excellency?" he opened, after watching the man send his children a stern glance.

The Emperor barely glanced at him. "I did," he confirmed. "It seems I am in need of a new lanista."

Lestrade smiled politely up at him, his heartbeat picking up. "So I understand, your Excellency."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but his father didn't seem concerned. "Indeed. I have been watching you fight in my court for ten years now, and perhaps that in itself would have been enough to commend you to me - but I have also watched how you have trained my son." He turned to smile slightly at Sherlock, earning another disgusted expression from Mycroft. "I believe, Lestrade, that if you can train Sherlock to be so proficient, then you can train anyone."

He wanted to protest, to argue that he had had four years to train Sherlock and if the boy _wasn't_ good at the end of that then he doubted anyone could train him, but he knew better than to disagree with the Emperor. He had suspected he would be the choice for lanista anyway - aside from one other fighter, he had been at the court the longest.

"Thank you, your Excellency," he said instead. "I would be honoured."

The Emperor nodded briskly, dismissing him. It was not until he left the study that the flicker of smugness overcame him. If he was the court lanista, then when Mycroft became the Emperor he would _have_ to speak to him.

The thought had no sooner crossed his mind than a familiar voice was calling out to him from the study door. Lestrade stopped and turned to face Mycroft as he clicked the door shut on his family.

"I only wish to apologise for what happened between us," Mycroft said quickly. Lestrade felt his stomach drop in disappointment, but he waited for the younger man to elaborate nonetheless. "I behaved despicably. I hurt you when I left, and I believed that it would be easier for you if I kept out of your way to avoid reminding you of it. It… recently occurred to me that I may have hurt you even further by avoiding you as I have been. I took advantage of you, and then allowed cowardice to prevent me from acknowledging it."

Lestrade frowned. "Forgive me, my Lord, but I would not say that you took advantage of me," he protested calmly. "I had previously believed that it was me who took advantage. I had assumed that you wanted something that it later appeared you did not."

The elder Holmes looked crestfallen. For a moment Lestrade allowed his heart to leap - had these four years of avoidance been caused by a simple misunderstanding? Was it possible that Mycroft would wish to forget it now, to try again?

He swallowed. "If you are amenable, Lestrade, I would like to clear the field between us," he said, sounding hopeful. "To start anew."

The urge to rush forwards and take the young man into his arms was difficult to quell; Lestrade took a moment to reply as he struggled with it. "I would be delighted, my Lord," he said finally.

But in the weeks that followed, Lestrade had to re-evaluate his expectations. If he had thought that Mycroft would begin once more to seek out his company, he was mistaken; although the elder Holmes had stopped rushing to leave a room he found himself sharing with Lestrade, they still barely encountered each other. Now that Sherlock was fifteen, he no longer needed chaperoning around the court, and Mycroft's one-time habit of escorting Sherlock to dine with their father only picked up closer to once in a sevennight.

He wondered, sometimes, if he imagined the lingering looks he received on those occasions. Sometimes the future Emperor would look at him and flush scarlet, as though he _knew_ somehow that Lestrade had awoken that morning with his hand already on his prick, trying desperately to hold onto the last vestiges of a dream of being on his knees in front of him. Even more occasionally he would catch a flash of a similar expression from the younger man, as though he was struggling very hard not to throw himself on Lestrade and positively _devour_ him.

And yet, he never so much as took one step in Lestrade's direction, and before long, this began to make him _very_ frustrated.

* * *

Sherlock was sixteen when Mycroft first realised that his younger brother would make a better ruler than he would.

They were on a Saturnalia parade through the streets, he and Sherlock seated behind their father on a low-slung chariot, within reach of the people but elevated enough to protect them from the inevitable few that would become violent. As they passed into the poorer parts of the city, a young red-haired woman had stepped out in front of the chariot, hands reaching out to them, screaming for help with a small and dirty child clinging to her heels.

Mycroft's first thought was to protect the Emperor. Sherlock's was to help the woman.

That first parade set it off, but it continued and inflated every time the two of them appeared in public together. The population of Rome would cheer for Mycroft, but they went positively wild for Sherlock.

The adoration was mutual, as well: their father had allowed Sherlock, when accompanied by Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, to venture out into the city and look around and speak to people. He had often come back buzzing with excitement at having watched some element of ordinary life to which the court was not usually exposed - gutting fish, patching roads, and most importantly to Sherlock, solving crimes.

The thing that held him back was Sherlock's political disposition. Most of his father's council disliked the younger Holmes for some insult he had delivered to them over the years, and he could not imagine his brother ever sitting down for long enough to give matters of the consulate his full attention.

It wasn't until he'd had the dilemma for almost five years that he realised its solution was simple.

He had never seen his father make any kind of political decision without at least consulting the council first. He supposed it could be argued that the Emperor was merely a figurehead, a face to carve into statues, and that it was the council who ruled the Empire, with the Emperor merely a member of it.

What if Sherlock _appeared _to rule, which would please the city, and Mycroft could handle the weighty, 'boring' politics of the day-to-day running of the Empire? He did not doubt that once saddled with the responsibility, Sherlock would have his own opinions, especially where the welfare of the people was concerned. But Mycroft could be there for the things that he wished to delegate, to help him make the more difficult or cumbersome decisions.

He almost mentioned it to their father several times, but the man had always favoured him over Sherlock. Mycroft did not think that he'd understand, and he didn't want his father dying terrified that his chosen heir would give away the Empire to someone he did not believe worthy.

So it wasn't until he was twenty-nine and his father fell ill that Mycroft finally confided in his younger brother.

Sherlock had avoided their father's deathbed as though his illness was contagious, and so when Mycroft made the decision to speak to him about it, the most difficult part of the conversation was finding his brother in order to have it.

The first place that he tried was the gladiator's cages. He argued with himself the entire way there that he was trying the cages first because that was where Sherlock spent the majority of his time, but that wasn't as true as it had been when he was a boy. Sherlock's interests had broadened as he grew into a young man, although anyone looking to find him would still do well to find the court's lanista first.

Or so he told himself. He certainly wasn't going there just for the chance to speak to Lestrade.

He hadn't had many chances to do that in the last few years; they crossed paths a few times a week, but Mycroft never had occasion to pause and make conversation, and if the lanista did, he never acted on it.

Now, though, when Mycroft knocked on the door of the lanista's chamber a flurry of activity greeted the sound; something crashed to the floor, followed by a rustling of fabric and several coughs before a deep, husky 'come in'.

Mycroft slid the door open and peered around it. Lestrade sat at a low table, a wax tablet resting in front of him. One of his hands was buried in his dark hair, holding his head above the tablet. The other was hidden from Mycroft's view by the table, but from the line of his elbow it was quite obviously pressed between his thighs.

It hit him in a rush: the older man's cheeks were tinged with red and he was still breathing heavily and it was clear that he had been right in the middle of _something_ that Mycroft had just interrupted. What that _something_ was wasn't difficult to guess, and the realisation sent a bolt of something liquid from Mycroft's throat right down to his toes, which curled in his sandals. What time of the day was it to be doing… _that?_

"My Lord," Lestrade gasped, and his voice had too much breath in it. Mycroft's knees weakened at the sound and he leaned against the doorway in a desperate attempt to hide his reaction to it. Lestrade's eyes darkened so far that it was visible from the door and he knew he had failed.

He cleared his throat quickly. "I was, er… I was looking for Sherlock," he said, closing his eyes in embarrassment at the stammer. "Forgive me, Lestrade, I did not mean to… interrupt." His face flushed at the accidental suggestion his tone flooded the words with. It was the most ridiculous thing in the world, that he was twenty-nine years old and yet in this room he still felt seventeen.

Lestrade flushed as well. "Not at all, my Lord, I… I have not seen Sherlock this afternoon, I am afraid." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, no doubt adjusting himself in his loincloth. Or was he not wearing a loincloth, allowing his erection - and Mycroft knew exactly what it would look like, the sight burned indelibly into his memory for all his adult life - to distend the fabric of the light, undyed toga he wore?

Mycroft pressed his lips together. "No matter," he choked out, mortified at the sudden tightening of his own loincloth. "Would you have any idea where I might find him?"

The lanista fidgeted in his chair. "Did you check the arena? Or he could be with his father. _Your_ father," he corrected quickly. Mycroft smiled half-heartedly. "He could be with Mrs Hudson, out somewhere. Other than that, he could be anywhere, I am sorry."

He sighed. "Thank you," he said, trying to stand up properly again but deeming his legs not quite fit to support him just yet and leaning back against the door. "If… if you do see him, will you tell him that I was looking for him?"

Lestrade smiled. "Of course, my Lord."

The pause stretched on until it was uncomfortable. Mycroft took a steadying breath in. "Well," he said hesitantly. "Thank you. I will… leave you to it."

He watched the flush on Lestrade's cheeks darken, but the man simply nodded gratefully. Mycroft hesitated on his way out the door, giving the lanista one more chance to call him back, to nonchalantly suggest that he helped him when he continued his activities. When he didn't, Mycroft shook himself and closed the door behind him.

The sound of Lestrade banging his head on the table and groaning was audible from the other end of the corridor.

He searched for his brother for a while longer before giving up and retiring to his father's study. In his illness, Mycroft had taken to perusing his consulate documents, taking them to the Emperor's bedside and reading them to him, or simply reading them himself and regurgitating their contents.

Lestrade, though, must have found Sherlock, because the young man barged noisily into the study as night was beginning to sink its hooks into the sky, flopping into a chair with a put-upon sigh. "Lestrade says you wished to speak to me," he stated bluntly.

Mycroft frowned at him. "I did - about a serious matter, Sherlock, I would appreciate it if you gave me your full attention."

The younger man sighed again. "Very well, Mycroft, I am listening." He rested an imperious elbow on the arm of his chair and waved slightly, as though waving him on.

He took a deep breath and dove in. "I am considering abdicating the Empire to you," he confessed.

Sherlock lifted one dark eyebrow, but other than that he showed little of the surprise Mycroft had expected. "You do not look surprised," he observed lightly.

"I have seen you struggling with something since Father fell ill," the younger man said, shrugging. "I guessed it may be this." He paused a moment, watching as Mycroft pulled idly at a stray thread on the fringe of his toga. "I do not think it wise, Mycroft. The people may want me, but they _need_ you. You have been preparing to rule them for your entire life, you have been taught things I have not - I cannot and do not _wish_ to rule." He looked almost panicked; aware, no doubt, that if Mycroft abdicated he would have little choice. "Father favoured you over me for a reason, Mycroft," he said plaintively.

Mycroft shook his head calmly. He hadn't expected his brother to jump at the opportunity, yet another reason he wanted to give it to him. "The reasons Father _appeared_ to favour me are the exact same reasons that the people favour you. I am not asking you to single-handedly rule the Empire. Quite the opposite, in fact - should you wish it, all that you would be required to do would be to stand in the chariot at festivals."

A second eyebrow joined the first in arching towards the younger Holmes' hairline. Mycroft smiled. "You are right, I have been raised to rule the Empire. I know the day-to-day mechanics of politics and the way that the city works. If I were to take care of that side of things, it would leave you free for public appearances - bread and circuses, if you will. Split your time between your beloved gladiators and helping the smallfolk with their little problems. Be seen to assist the Vigiles next time, perhaps, and you will be the most beloved ruler the Roman Empire has ever seen, _and_ the city will run smoothly."

He sat back, trying and failing not to look pleased with himself. Really, he didn't know why no-one had thought of it before. It seemed so _difficult_, relying solely on one man to rule an entire Empire.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, but it was only for show; a slow smirk spread over his fine-boned face. There was more of their father in Sherlock's face than there was in his own, Mycroft mused. He had always found it surprising that the man had chosen to spend more time with his eldest son than the one whose temperament more closely resembled his own. Perhaps it was a sense of duty, to give Mycroft the best preparation to rule. Or perhaps Sherlock was simply too noisy as a child, and by the time he had quietened it was too late.

"For once, I believe you are entitled to that insufferably smug expression, Mycroft," the new future Emperor said lightly, nodding. "Very well. If you appear to set aside the Empire, I will appear to take it up in your stead."

Mycroft nodded once. "Thank you, brother," he acknowledged. Sherlock offered him one brief, almost sarcastic smile.

Sherlock would be in more of a position to assess the state of the city from where he would be, as well - and he knew that his brother would point out the right problems and suggest adequate solutions, as well. It really was the perfect plan, he mused, trying to catch his smile before it widened and not quite managing it.

The younger Holmes snorted. "Do not feel _too_ pleased with yourself, _brother_," he scolded, but the usual bite to his insults was missing. "If your head swells much further, you will no longer fit through the doors."

Mycroft expected him to get up and leave, but he simply sat, his hands steepled together so that his index fingers brushed back and forth over his bottom lip, his eyes fixed on Mycroft critically. He sat and allowed the examination, breathing slowly to control his heart rate and stop the blood from rising to his cheeks at the memory of his earlier encounter with Lestrade.

Sherlock, of course, saw it anyway. Or perhaps he only guessed: he had known of Mycroft's attraction to the lanista for years. "Why do you not tell Lestrade that you desire him?" he asked after a moment. "He will not refuse you."

He sighed. "It is not that simple, Sherlock," he said in a long-suffering tone.

"Why not?" the younger man protested. "You want him, and Juno knows why, but he wants you. Where are the complications?"

Mycroft wasn't sure whether to feel pity or jealousy for his younger brother's lack of understanding. "The complications lie in our social standing. He is my father's slave. Can I ever know for sure that he is happy, that I am not hurting him or making him uncomfortable, that he is not simply pretending to enjoy himself for fear of the punishments it is my right to exact on him if he does not?"

To his surprise, Sherlock was still frowning his little nonplussed frown. "Yes, you can," he said simply. "You only have to see the way he looks at you."

It was an oddly touching statement, but Mycroft just raised an eyebrow in response. "And can you promise me that he will _always_ look like that? _Feel_ like that? That I will _never_ have to force him to get what I want?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Can you promise that _you_ will?"

He understood the point that his brother was trying to make. He knew that he would always want Lestrade - it had been eighteen years, for Jupiter's sake. Twelve since anything had happened between them. If he was going to 'get over' the way he felt, surely it would have happened by now. "You cannot possibly understand, Sherlock," he said instead, but despite the truth in it he knew how it sounded.

The younger Holmes smiled sadly at him. "If I ever find anyone I care about as much as you care about him, I will find a way to be sure. You will see."

Mycroft returned the expression. "I wish you luck, Sherlock."

* * *

He had just grown used to the idea that heated glances and the occasional interrupted masturbation session was everything he would get from Mycroft when John Watson came along and changed everything.

Sherlock Holmes succeeded his father as Emperor of Rome on the Ides of May. Lestrade was grateful, for once, that his position as the Emperor's lanista prevented him from participating in the games at the Circus, as every gladiator at the court took part in his inaugural celebrations, and close to half of the court arenarii did not return. He thought that Sherlock was possibly even more upset about this than he was himself.

He wasn't sure exactly what had transpired between the Holmes brothers before Mycroft's abdication, but the elder brother always seemed far busier than the younger. Sherlock helped Lestrade to recruit new gladiators for his arena from the survivors of his inaugural games and turned up to watch more than half of their training sessions, seemingly no more busy than he had been before he became Emperor besides the consulate sessions he complained about attending.

Knowing Mycroft as he thought he did, Lestrade always assumed that he was the one attending to most of the duties typically performed by the Emperor, and that the way Sherlock's constant interfering in the work of the city lawkeepers and court proceedings - solving murders and kidnappings and saving 'ordinary' lives - inflamed his popularity with the people of Rome was almost entirely engineered by his older brother. It worked, too, so Lestrade refrained from commenting on it.

Mycroft attended the court arena's weekly displays of their skill, though Lestrade thought that he did so because it afforded an apparently innocent opportunity to talk to other court officials and his brother without the pressure of politics to sharpen their minds, and not because he enjoyed them. Even so, he found it more difficult to concentrate with the tall, handsome diplomat watching him, especially on those occasions when he looked up and caught Mycroft staring at him with his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide with something hungry.

It never stopped being frustrating, knowing that what he wanted so desperately was _so close_, that Mycroft so plainly wanted him as badly as he was wanted, but knowing that he could never say anything, that everything rested in the other man's elegant, long-fingered hands, that if he never chose to act on the attraction he felt then Lestrade had to live with that.

He tried to make it difficult to resist, but he was aware that as time went on, his physical attractiveness faded. When his forty-seventh birthday came and went he began to despair slightly.

Then John Watson walked into the Circus Maximus.

He had heard of the man before; his wife had been murdered months before he appeared in the Circus arena, her belly brutally ripped apart. Sherlock had discussed the case with him, though he hadn't been asked to assist with it.

He'd been interested in him right from the start - right from the moment he had seen the programme for the day's festivities and noted that the volunteer gladiator had elected to walk into the arena with two weapons and no protection, as though he had nothing to lose.

His own interest, however piqued, had faded into insignificance beside the Emperor's the moment Watson had engaged another gladiator in combat.

When Sherlock was thirteen, Lestrade had suspected that the boy was attracted to him. He thought that it made sense, though he wondered just how healthy it might be - at thirteen, he was beginning to discover his own sexuality, and Lestrade had been the person he spent the most time with and placed the most value on, the most important thing in his life. Within a year, the fumbling attraction had ceased - but Lestrade suspected that it had left its mark. Sherlock had never been short of suitors, people vying for his father's attention while lusting over the handsome figure that he grew into, but contrary to the gossip - no doubt spread by the women he turned aside - Lestrade knew that of the few people Sherlock invited into his bed, the ones who stayed the longest were predominantly male.

And all of them, apparently, paled in comparison to John Watson.

Lestrade himself had been impressed by him. A skilled and confident warrior had approached Watson, and for a moment Lestrade had thought that the dimachaerus was not going to defend himself. But without warning, the man had launched into a furious and incredibly skilled attack on his persecutor, driving him backwards and then neatly disabling him by slashing across the tendons holding up his knees. Lestrade had seen military training in the style of his attack, and basic medical knowledge in the precision of his strikes.

Sherlock had been on the edge of his seat by the time the fight ended, Watson standing victorious over a gladiator Lestrade recognised from previous bouts. "Him," he had gasped, practically drooling into his lap. "I want him."

He had refrained from a bawdy remark in front of Mycroft, and nodded instead. "So do I," he admitted.

Watson had turned out to be good-humoured and humble for an auctoratus, accepting Lestrade's jokes about the head lanista of the Circus and making a few shocked ones of his own upon learning just how interested the Emperor was in the games and his own gladiators. He had fought in the military at Ctesiphon, and learned his apparently rudimentary medical and anatomical knowledge out of personal curiosity while growing up and in the military. He was an instantly likeable man, and slotted himself into life at the court with very little trouble.

To his surprise, Sherlock barely waited a week before registering his sexual interest. He had warned John early that the Emperor may approach him, but he had not expected the man to make a move so quickly. When John told him, he supposed he shouldn't have been so surprised. Sherlock had never been the type of person to waste time when he knew what he wanted.

"I think I have to accept," John confided.

Lestrade frowned. "No, you do not," he argued. "He would not wish you to if it was not what you wanted. If he gave you the opportunity to refuse him, then you ought at least to delay until you are certain." John bit his lip, and Lestrade sighed. He had always known that Sherlock would make it difficult for John to refuse. Sometimes he did not even realise how much he manipulated people in order to get what he wanted. "What did he offer you in return?"

John shrugged. "He offered to re-open the investigation into Mary's death and assist with it himself." Lestrade raised an eyebrow. The Emperor's skill for judging exactly what people wanted most and then offering it to them really was not fair on the people he used it on. "If there is a chance I may find justice for her, it would not be right to let it pass me by."

He shook his head doggedly. "She would not want you to suffer something like this for _justice_. Forgive my bluntness, but finding out who killed her will not bring her back, John."

"I know," the dimachaerus admitted quietly. "I am not considering this for her. Mary can no longer care who murdered her; it is _me_ that cares." He paused, then, one finger tracing around the edge of a tablet on Lestrade's desk. "And I… I believe I must admit that I want _everything_ he is offering. Not just the part that he offers to appease me. He was very clear that he does not want a bedslave, he wants a _lover_." Lestrade watched in amazement as John's face flushed pink. "I like him. I think I _want_ to be his lover - or I will, in time."

He held the silence for a moment, marvelling quietly at Sherlock's power, but he smiled nonetheless. "Then I wish you luck," he said simply. He had always known that Sherlock would get what he wanted, and if he was honest, he thought John's influence might be good for him, and possibly even vice versa - especially if Sherlock could determine who had murdered his wife. "But John, please be careful."

The gladiator smiled warmly at him. "Thank you, Greg." He tapped his fingers on the tablet he had been toying with, then frowned at it as though he had not noticed what it was. "Do you read?" he asked, sounding surprised.

Lestrade glanced at the tablet. "Yes, I do," he admitted. "I have found it quite helpful as lanista."

John raised an inevitably interested eyebrow. "What were you, before you were a gladiator?" he pursued.

"A child," Lestrade told him, smiling. "I learned to read when I was here." He hesitated for a moment, but he liked John, so he decided on the truth. "The Emperor's brother taught me."

John had not yet seen Mycroft properly; he had been at court for a little over a week, and the elder Holmes had not been present at the week's bout of display fighting. His jaw dropped anyway. Since his abdication, Mycroft's reputation as cold and uncaring had grown until it was almost ridiculous. Lestrade chuckled, and John closed his mouth hastily. "I would guess there is a story behind that," he said, grinning wryly.

"Oh, yes," Lestrade agreed. "But a very old one. This was twenty years ago now." It felt strange saying it, admitting that most of his life had passed him by since that one incident. John only looked at him expectantly, so he chuckled. "I was twenty-six," he obliged. "Mycroft was not - _is not_ - as cold as gossip has led people to believe. I was teaching his Excellency to handle a sword at the time, and he used to come and collect him. I think he was worried that his brother would become _too_ enthusiastic. As a child, the Emperor dove headfirst into everything he did. Mycroft was only seventeen, but I… he was already incredibly attractive, and I have never been good at hiding my emotions."

The dimachaerus chuckled. "If he offered to teach you how to read, then he must have returned your affections," he commented.

Lestrade smiled sarcastically, but he nodded. "I believe he did. He said that he wished to teach me in return for my teaching Sherlock, but I am, and was, a slave, he should not have considered _repaying_ me. I believe he wanted me. I am certain that he knew I wanted him, but… I think it frightened him."

John nodded sympathetically. "So nothing ever became of it?" He shook his head, but the memories batted around in his head anyway: the way Mycroft used to look at him, _still _looked at him every now and then. The way he had kissed him so desperately, as though he was trying to fuse their lips together, as though he had completely lost control of himself. He supposed that had been the problem all along. "I am sorry," John said softly. Lestrade shrugged. "Do you still feel for him?" he asked.

A sigh worked its way out of Lestrade's chest. "It has been twenty years, John," he replied, as though that solved everything instead of making it insurmountably worse.

The gladiator was not fooled. "That is not an answer," he said wryly. Lestrade only smiled.

"No, it is not."

* * *

At the beginning, Mycroft found his brother's obvious sexual satiation quite sickening.

It was not jealousy, this feeling in his stomach, it was nausea at the thought of his brother engaged in such acts as might leave him looking that satisfied, that idiotically happy. And worry, of course, that the incredibly dangerous man Sherlock had decided to take into his bed might not be as trustworthy as he seemed to think. Gladiators were violent, cruel men by profession; they could not all turn out to be as good-natured as Lestrade, and the more of them that Sherlock surrounded himself with so closely, the more likely one of them would turn on him.

Sherlock naturally misinterpreted the reasoning behind the expression on his face, and rubbed his gratification into his brother's face at every opportunity he could. And that burning in his throat when he caught the fondly lascivious looks swapped between the younger Holmes and his newest gladiator was almost certainly his gag reflex flaring up in disgust, not resentment that Sherlock had apparently found what he had never allowed himself.

Mycroft knew he was kidding himself, of course, but it was easier than admitting the truth.

Everything seemed so _easy_ for Sherlock. He wanted John Watson, so he had bartered his crime-solving skills for the man's sexual favours with barely a second thought. Mycroft _did_ worry about him: he had spoken as though what he felt for the gladiator was merely sexual desire, and yet Mycroft had recognised the wistful, adoring tone in his voice that spoke of a longing for more.

Sherlock _looked_ blissfully happy, and yet Mycroft recognised the tiny undertones of longing beneath his looks; the way his smiles would falter when Watson looked away from him. He still remembered the discussion they had had close to ten years ago, before Sherlock had taken the Empire: he wondered whether his younger brother understood, now, the hesitation he had scorned so violently in Mycroft. Equal relationships were more difficult than he had guessed when the two people were so wildly unequal to the rest of society. He arranged his face carefully into an expression of _I told you so_ every time he caught Sherlock's eyes.

When he was awakened one night by his brother's screams, he had not been able to resist going to investigate. He knew what the screams were - he had lived with Sherlock all his life, he recognised what his brother sounded like when he was in pain and that was not it - but the guards had rushed to his aid before Mycroft could rise to stop them, and once that damage had been done he had thought it best to smooth over the matter himself.

Sherlock had opened the door still flushed from climax, wrapped in the linen from his bed and leaving John Watson naked and mortified on the bed behind him. The exact nature of their activities was immediately obvious, and only extreme control of his face had prevented Mycroft from flushing scarlet. Of _course_ Sherlock would see nothing wrong with that. Pleasure was pleasure where Sherlock was concerned, and he had never cared what society thought of particular forms of it.

Mycroft had always known that Sherlock was braver than he was, but the sheer _defiance_ in his brother's face when he had stood at that door, daring Mycroft to tell him that what he did in private was wrong, had shaken him a little. He had fixed a knowing sneer onto his face immediately, but he could tell Sherlock had seen through it to the jealousy underneath. Everything, he thought again, was so _easy_ for him. He wanted something, and he went out and got it.

The next morning Sherlock had the same attitude, so Mycroft attempted to comply; he fixed a supercilious sneer on his face and stared his younger brother down with it.

Sherlock simply smirked and exaggerated the wince that shifting his bottom over the concrete of the stand elicited. Mycroft had found himself flushing and glancing at Lestrade in the arena, his bare chest glistening, mouth playing in a satisfied smile.

He knew Sherlock was right, as well, which made it worse somehow. Having someone else confirm that it was not wrong or disgusting made him feel even more cowardly for allowing the desire he had felt to scare him away from one of the best things to ever happen to him. He dropped his smirk when he realised he had no right to scorn Sherlock for something that he desired himself.

John Watson walked out into the arena with the rest of the gladiators and caught Sherlock's eye straight away. Mycroft stared at the stocky gladiator as he looked his younger brother up and down with positively _hungry_ eyes, finishing at his face with a soft, almosttendersmile. It was obvious that Watson cared for him; whatever Sherlock had been doing with him when they snuck out of the court at night, it had obviously won Sherlock his heart. He watched the man continue to trade fond expressions with his brother until Lestrade commanded his attention once more.

He watched the lanista for a long time. There was too much history between them now for him to simply approach him the way Sherlock had approached Watson. Would Lestrade even accept that Mycroft wanted him, after he had denied it for so long? He would be well within his emotional right to be angry with him instead. Perhaps he had had his chance twenty years ago, and he had missed it.

He looked at Sherlock instead. "Are you still certain that this business with John Watson is the best course of action?" he asked, affecting his usual disapproving air.

Sherlock snorted. "Of course," he dismissed immediately. "It is working exactly as I planned it to." He didn't meet Mycroft's eyes, though, and he knew that Sherlock was not as sure as he sounded. It was obvious to _him_ that Watson was besotted with him, but clearly Sherlock hadn't worked it out yet.

Mycroft wondered if he ought to take something from that. He looked back at Lestrade, watching as a young page took a message from Sherlock to withdraw Watson and his sparring-partner from training - the boy had come to Sherlock from Mrs Hudson, who was apparently waiting outside. The lanista frowned at the boy, then at the Emperor, but released the two gladiators. His eyes met Mycroft's on their way down.

"Do enjoy the rest of training, Mycroft," his brother said loudly as a parting quip, making Mycroft start guiltily and snap his eyes away.

He cleared his throat. "Removing Watson from training is hardly going to help him survive the Saturnalia tournament," he reminded him sternly. He could not imagine Sherlock's devastation if Watson were to be slain there.

But Sherlock only smiled. "I would not be so sure," he said, sounding far happier than he had any right to be. "I find it helps to have something to live for."

Mycroft only realised what he meant when he saw the programme for the upcoming Saturnalia parade. It was not difficult to guess that the lone prisoner John Watson was scheduled to execute alone had had a hand in the murder of Watson's wife; nor was it difficult to guess, judging by the heroic sulk that the Emperor had gone into since the day he withdrew Watson from training, just how he felt about Watson's apparent insistence on facing the murderer alone.

He would have scolded Sherlock for his inability to simply forbid John from doing anything foolish and place someone else in the arena with him to make sure of it, but he found giving Sherlock advice on his relationship with Watson suddenly made him feel disgustingly hypocritical and he refrained.

He sat beside Lestrade at the games, behind and to either side of the Emperor as had become customary. Dividing his gaze between Sherlock biting his fingernails and Lestrade frowning critically at the arena below proved simple, as neither of them seemed to be paying him any attention. He understood their investment in the games: he had often sat in this box above the stands, staring down at Lestrade and praying feverishly to Mars to protect him.

Watson performed with his usual dizzying competence; even Mycroft had to admit his skill in the arena was staggering. Not that he had expected anything else from this particular fight; for the first half, he had the expectation of exacting revenge on his wife's killer, and for the second, assuming the execution went smoothly - which, judging by Sherlock's grump, was not a given - he would be riding on the high of finally having avenged his late wife.

Sherlock sat up straighter in his seat when Watson walked back into the arena; Lestrade, too, frowned with worry. A hulking, savage-looking Black prisoner, hands bound in front of him, was released onto the sand from the other end of the arena. Mycroft frowned. If Sherlock was worried about Watson attempting to engage the criminal in a 'fair fight', releasing him into the arena without the use of his hands was surely only tempting that fate. A man with Watson's idea of honour would find the idea of executing an essentially helpless man repugnant.

Sure enough, Watson stepped forwards, cut the rope tying his opponent's hands together, and offered him one of the two swords he carried.

He watched the two begin to spar, so fast that he could not follow their movements; Lestrade's breathing picked up beside him. Mycroft spread his hands over the bench in order to push himself closer. He could see the fighters' lips moving, taunting each other. John's face contorted repeatedly in anger, but he didn't let the other man's words drive him to recklessness, his strikes just as precise and punishingly fast as they had been without the jibes.

A calloused hand fell over his own on the bench; Mycroft looked up in surprise to see Lestrade's quick intake of breath. His dark eyes widened in shock at the accidental contact, and he withdrew his hand, twisting his lips into an apologetic smile.

_"John!_"

Sherlock leapt to his feet with the cry; Lestrade shot out a hand to catch the Emperor's arm as though afraid he would try to throw himself out of the box and into the arena. Another glance at the sand showed that the big man had stamped on an existing wound on John's thigh, dropping him to his knees. He watched, his gaze drawn between the gladiator and his lover, standing up in his box with a terrified hand clamped over his mouth.

But the criminal waited, and Mycroft saw John glance up at their box, at Sherlock being held back by Lestrade, and an expression of calm determination flittered over his face, as though the sight of Sherlock re-centred him, rejuvenated him. And when he moved again, it was in a tangle of arms and legs that ended, without Mycroft quite knowing how, with the big black man on the sand, blood spraying from a wound to his stomach, and John Watson bending to resolutely cut his throat.

Sherlock's body relaxed visibly, his shoulders sagging as the crowd exploded into noise around them. Lestrade let go of his wrist, his eyes darting up and resting on Mycroft's face.

His throat was so uncomfortably tight he could almost feel the walls of muscle inside it stretching. The way that Watson's eyes had found Sherlock as he was on the ground, the way that _that_ was what spurred him back into action - he hadn't done that for fear of displeasing his Emperor, or for his own need for revenge. He'd done that because he'd seen how scared his _lover_ was. Mycroft glanced at Lestrade, struggling for breath, to find a concerned expression on the lanista's face. "Are you all right?" the older man asked him worriedly.

Mycroft tried to smile. "I just need… some fresh air," he excused hurriedly, hearing his voice crack. He stumbled out of the box and descended the stairs, gasping for breath through his painfully tight throat until he found the open air, avoiding the gazes of the people who hadn't made it into the Circus stands.

He stood there for barely a minute when Sherlock flew past him, almost sprinting around the walls to where Watson stood, leaning underneath a pillar looking nervous.

Mycroft tried not to watch them, to give them their moment of privacy. He tried to steady his own breathing and watch the passers-by instead. But he couldn't miss the thump of two bodies hitting stone, and he looked around in shock to check that the two of them were all right.

They were kissing, and the sight of it almost imploded Mycroft's entire world.

There was no trace of Emperor or gladiator in the kiss. No trace of the hesitation, the longing that Sherlock had displayed in every other interaction between the two of them, the submission that Mycroft would expect had John been ordered into the kiss. They were simply two men, kissing as though their lives depended on it.

It _was_ possible.

How much time had he _wasted_ thinking that he could never have this? If Sherlock could have it with someone he had known for barely a month, then of course, _of course_ Mycroft could have it with Lestrade, who had cared about him back then and still looked at him like he wanted him even though he had stalled for _twenty years_. Yes, they were different - Mycroft was the second most important man in the Empire, and Lestrade was a slave in his court - but they were also two men, men who liked and respected each other as people.

As soon as his mind clicked back online, Mycroft Holmes turned and ran.

* * *

Lestrade had barely made it back to his chamber after the Saturnalia games had concluded when his door banged open without warning.

It had taken him longer than he had anticipated, having to take a detour to ensure that his injured gladiators were safely delivered to the infirmary. He had been lucky not to lose any in the day's festivities, but Angelo had a rather nasty gash across his back and several other fighters had scratches and sprains. He was infinitely grateful for the etiquette that Sherlock insisted on between his fighters: the one time that two of them had been the last two standing in a melee in the arena, they had simply saluted each other and walked off.

He hadn't needed to enquire as to John's whereabouts, though the gladiator had vanished as soon as the games had ended. Sherlock had returned to the box after John's fight with the barbarian that had murdered his wife flushed, red-lipped and incandescently happy, and Lestrade had not expected to see his lover once the celebrations were over.

Mycroft, however, had not returned, and he couldn't help but worry. The man had looked unreasonably distraught after John's ordeal, and Lestrade still could not fathom the reason for his early exit from the games. He had almost looked more upset than Sherlock himself. Did _he_ have feelings for John, as well? Or had he fallen ill and the nerves from seeing his brother's lover in such danger simply set it off?

He wanted to run to the elder Holmes' bedchamber and bang on his door until he explained himself, or at least confirmed that he was all right. But he had to keep reminding himself that it was not his place, a phrase that had become something of a mantra over the years.

It should have made him feel better when his door flew open so violently it banged against the wall to reveal the Emperor's brother, but it didn't. Mycroft looked absolutely frenzied, his face flushed and eyes wild.

"Myc- my Lord," Lestrade corrected hurriedly. "Are you all right?"

The man closed the door carefully behind him and leaned against it, closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths to calm himself down. "Gregory," he said quietly, opening his eyes and fixing them on Lestrade.

The sound of his given name was something of a shock, but he took it in his stead, merely blinking a few times in surprise. "Yes?" he said, just as quietly, their voices barely audible in the room over the babble from the cages down the hall.

Mycroft took a few steps forward until he had stepped around Lestrade's desk and stood in front of him. "I love you," he said clearly.

Lestrade's mouth fell open, but Mycroft hadn't finished. "I have done for years. You have been the most important thing in my life for twenty-three years, and I am _so sorry_ that it has taken me that long to admit it." He could only watch in stunned silence as the elder Holmes sank to his knees in front of him, reaching out to take his hand. "Please, forgive me for everything I have done and said to deny what there is between us," he said, his hazel eyes fixed beseechingly on Lestrade's. "You have every right to be furious with me for daring to ask _now_, but I love you, and I wish to spend every moment of the rest of my life apologising for the last twenty years."

Tears welled in his eyes, but he was smiling in what looked like a daunting combination of hope and relief. "Oh, Mycroft," Lestrade said softly, not fighting his own tears when they rose in his throat. It had been _so long_ he had almost given up - but not quite. He was perfectly prepared to believe that he would have waited the rest of his life for this. "I knew you would get there in the end."

He slid out of his chair to join the younger man on the floor and wrap him tightly in his arms, feeling Mycroft clutch at his back as his words set in. "I love you too," he assured him. He buried his nose in Mycroft's neck and inhaled, feeling the man shudder in his arms and breathing in his scent. "I love you, Mycroft."

Beginning to fear that their desperate embrace would cut off his air, Lestrade separated them just far enough to take a deep breath in and then plunge their lips together, burying one hand in Mycroft's still-impeccable hair and guiding them backwards until Mycroft's long legs folded underneath him and he sat down properly, half-in Lestrade's lap.

There were hands in his hair, in his clothes, in his very soul; Mycroft opened his mouth to accept Lestrade's tongue and he'd had some practice since the last time they had done this, and even though it had been twenty years, including some of the younger man's teenage ones, he couldn't help the surge of possessive anger at the thought of _where _he might have got that experience from.

Distracted as he was by the kiss it was a moment before he noticed how awkward their current arrangement was for the taller man, who was bent almost double in his lap in order to press their mouths together. He fixed a firm hand around Mycroft's back and lifted him, bending them forwards until they spread out on the floor of Lestrade's bedchamber and he could nestle himself between his spread legs.

Kissing was so much better horizontal, when he did not have to worry about whether his knees would hold his weight and keep the two of them upright. This way he could rock his hips downwards properly, rubbing the two of them together comfortably, resting his weight on the other man.

Mycroft began to moan, but cut off the sound when he seemed to remember where they were; Lestrade bit lightly at his lips in response, but an extraordinarily loud laugh from the hallway made him break the kiss and look up.

He didn't want their first real, purposeful, acknowledged sexual encounter to be done furtively, each biting their lips to keep quiet, on the floor and hoping that no-one would decide to discuss the day's event with Lestrade and barge into the middle of it.

"We should…" he cleared his throat when it came out almost an octave lower than his normal voice, but Mycroft's eyes darkened in a predatory fashion so he kept up the tone. "We should not do this here. We should go to a _bed_ somewhere no-one will interrupt us."

Mycroft leaned up and pressed a sucking kiss to his lips. "Yes," he agreed softly. "My chambers, we should…" Lestrade clambered off him and extended a hand to help him up, bumping their chests together when they rose. "Would you stay for the night?"

Lestrade kissed him again. "If you will let me, Mycroft, I will stay _every_ night."

Someone stopped them as they left Lestrade's chambers, a gladiator back from the infirmary with a bandage over his upper arm. Lestrade smiled at him. "I am afraid I have urgent business elsewhere in the court this evening," he told the man firmly. "Training tomorrow is also cancelled, enough of you require the rest."

One of Mycroft's delicate, long-fingered hands slipped into his own. Lestrade grinned up at him. "Lead the way, my Lord," he requested, holding his breath in case the reinstatement of the title caused Mycroft to have a panic attack about what he was doing, the way it had done twenty years ago.

Mycroft just smiled back at him, nodded to the gladiator, and kept walking, leading him by the hand through the court and all the way to his own chambers.

Lestrade had never been inside these rooms before, but there would be time to appreciate them later; as soon as they stepped inside the bedchamber Mycroft had pressed him against the wall and slammed their lips together again, his tongue searching each of his teeth in turn. Lestrade dropped his hands to bunch them in the formal purple-fringed toga the other man had worn to the games, wanting it _off_. Last time there had been clothes, just as there had been secrets and assumptions and insecurities. This time there would be none of either.

Apparently his lover - _finally_, the word lover would actually apply to Mycroft - agreed with the sentiment, reaching up to the pins and jewel-encrusted brooches holding up the garment and carefully unpinning them all, keeping the points carefully covered even as he let the fabric drop, exposing his torso to Lestrade's gaze.

They stepped apart so that Lestrade could look, his eyes sweeping hungrily over the thin frame of the other man. Mycroft held reasonably still to allow his scrutiny, hands tapping nervously against his thighs. Lestrade made sure to put on his widest, most lascivious smile as he looked back up to his face. _"Bacchus,_" he whispered slowly.

Mycroft smiled shyly and rested one hand coquettishly on his hip. "Now you," he requested.

"With pleasure," Lestrade replied, loosing the single pin on his own toga and flicking the garment over his head and into the air. He waved his arms in a flashy pose, grinning. "Ta-da," he said grandly.

The elder Holmes brother burst into delighted giggles, laughing until he almost doubled over. Lestrade laughed with him, stepping forwards to take him back into his arms. It was a laugh of relief just as much as one of genuine mirth: the weight of expectation and sentiment that they had both been placing on the moment lifted. Yes, this was the culmination of twenty years of panic and longing and heated glances, but it was also simply _them_. The reason that there _had_ been twenty years of panic and longing and heated glances was that they were completely, naturally comfortable with one another.

"Mycroft," Lestrade murmured against the other man's lips as he pulled him into another kiss.

His lover pressed him against the wall again, hands pulling gently at the fabric of his loincloth, tugging it loose and sliding his fingers into the top, scraping nails against his navel. "Gregory," he purred in response, his lips twisting in amusement as he finally managed to reduce the loincloth to a river of fabric and send it cascading down his legs. One long-fingered hand immediately wrapped itself around his prick, accompanied by an approving basso rumble from the depths of Mycroft's throat.

Lestrade planted both palms on the taller man's still-clothed rear and squeezed. "_Fuck,_" he cursed.

Mycroft chuckled darkly. "Oh, we will," he insisted, sliding his mouth down to the soft skin underneath Lestrade's jaw and biting it.

"Ouch," Lestrade said pointedly, but Mycroft only laughed. He joined in before going straight for the ties on the younger man's loincloth, dropping it and encouraging Mycroft to step out of it. When he didn't budge, leaving his body to pin Lestrade heavily against the wall, he frowned. "I thought the point of moving here was to be comfortably horizontal," he reminded him.

They glanced over at the bed, and Mycroft evidently agreed that it did look more comfortable than the wall, allowing himself to be led there without tangling his feet in his loincloth. Lestrade watched as he climbed unselfconsciously onto the bed and sat there with one eyebrow lifted expectantly and his legs splayed.

With a groan, he climbed between them to rejoin their lips, pushing the taller man onto his back and aligning their entire bodies in delicious ways. There was something about the sensation of bare skin on bare skin, smooth and warm, catching in places where sweat was beginning to form, that was unlike any other sensation, purely erotic in nature. It had been _years_ since Lestrade had felt it.

He let his kisses leave Mycroft's thin lips and slide down his neck, dipping his tongue into the bowl at the base of his throat and running it lavishly over the dark buds of his nipples. Mycroft arched his back languidly, his hands sliding through the short length of Lestrade's greying hair in encouragement.

He stilled awkwardly, though, when Lestrade was face-to-face with his perfectly lovely erection with very clear intent. Lestrade looked up, quirking an eyebrow. Mycroft blushed. "It is not… I mean… are you sure you want to do that?"

"Why not?" Lestrade asked, fixing a hand around him and stroking to make it difficult for the younger man to come up with a reasonable answer. "You are a hygienic man, this part of you is just as clean as the rest. I want to taste you."

Mycroft shifted, his lips parting to gasp at the sensations of Lestrade's hand on him. "I mean that it is not exactly… are you certain that you wish to… _degrade_ yourself in such a manner?"

Lestrade sighed, letting him go and flopping down onto the bed beside his lover to stare him seriously in the eye. He had wondered if this may be a problem, but dared to hope that his lover would not be so caught up by the arbitrary rules of his high society. "Do you honestly think that I could _degrade_ myself by bringing you pleasure? What we do in this room is between the two of us alone. I want to do this for you. Pleasure is good, is it not? And the gods wish us to seek pleasure wherever we can, or it would not feel the way that it does. It is considered all right for a woman to take a man's genitals into his mouth, but not a man, yet men's and women's mouths are anatomically the same - Mycroft, there is nothing wrong with _anything_ we might do within these four walls, as long as _we_ both wish it." He bit his lip, seeing that his lover was not convinced. Perhaps he should have saved this argument for another day - he simply had not been able to resist the sight of Mycroft's penis bared for him to touch, to give pleasure.

"I have… I have done this before," he admitted. "The world did not collapse. Neither of us ever thought any less of the other."

The elder Holmes frowned mightily. "You have done this before? With whom?"

He chuckled. "When I was sold to the Circus, I was fifteen. I lived with five other boys my own age, we were with each other every moment of the day. You remember being fifteen, Mycroft, I am certain you had difficulty keeping your hands away from yourself." Mycroft flushed, biting his bottom lip shyly as though remembering just that. Lestrade was temporarily derailed from his thought process by the image of a fifteen year-old Mycroft wanking furtively in odd places around the court. "Eventually we began to… help each other. At first only with hands, and then we experimented with other forms of pleasure. I am certain that our lanista knew what we were doing. It is simply… not considered as unforgiveable out there as it is in the court. Actually, I have always thought it cruel how it is taught to noble children that some forms of pleasure are incorrect and _degrading_. What if that is simply the form of pleasure that you desire? They condemn children to believing that there is something wrong with them for their entire lives."

Mycroft frowned and shook his head. "I never believed that my desires were wrong," he said, as though Lestrade had been speaking about him specifically. "I only feared that we would be discovered, and I was - I was the heir to the Empire, and people already disliked me."

"I was not talking about you," Lestrade said softly, feeling his heart sink.

"I know," Mycroft replied, one hand reaching out to snag Lestrade's wrist as though he was afraid he would attempt to leave. "I just wanted to clarify. It bothered me for a very long time - that when we had each other all those years ago, I wanted you to… be in control of me, to overwhelm me, even to penetrate me. And _I_ did not believe that that was wrong, because I knew _you_, and I knew that you would never use it to hurt me. But I had a duty to the Empire, and I could not do it if the people believed me to be what they think of people who desire those things. I have regretted choosing my duty over you every day since I made the decision. I did not wish to force you into the same decision, or make you believe that because we are in this relationship you must do things to please me that you did not want."

Lestrade smiled helplessly. "I know that you trust me. Trust that I will never do anything sexual, not even for you, that I do not wish to do." He rolled the two of them over so that he was perched once more between Mycroft's spread legs and bent to kiss him. "And trust that even with my mouth on you, I can be in control of you, and overwhelm you - I could even penetrate you, if you wished it." He grinned wickedly at the helpless expression and the groan that escaped the thin lips. "But if you are not comfortable, then I will not."

Mycroft left off stroking up Lestrade's arms in order to throw his hands above his head and arch his body upwards, rubbing their groins together with another groan. Lestrade dove back into his lips, supporting himself with one hand and dipping the other between them, bypassing his lover's arousal entirely to heft and cup his testicles. Mycroft whimpered against his lips.

After a few moments of this, as Lestrade had known he would, he brought his hands up and pushed Lestrade away from him enough to look him seriously in the eye. "That… that thing that you offered to do, before," he said shyly, thrusting his hips up in counterpoint so that Lestrade's hand clenched on his thigh. "Would you? Please?"

Lestrade grinned again. "With great pleasure, my love," he replied softly, sliding down the taller man's lanky body.

He could tell that Mycroft was holding his breath, so he pressed gentle kisses to his hips and the insides of his thighs first, caressing his lover with lips and tongue and fingers until his muscles began to unclench and he let out a shaky breath. After another moment, one long-fingered hand stroked its way down Mycroft's pale stomach to root itself in Lestrade's hair.

He smirked up at the other man and placed a wet, sucking kiss at the base of his erection, feeling it jump underneath his mouth. Mycroft threw his head back with a desperate noise, his fingers clenching pleasantly into Lestrade's scalp. He couldn't keep the grin off his face as he licked a wet stripe up the organ, finishing it with a moan-inducing flick of the tip of his tongue over the shiny, exposed head.

Lestrade couldn't help wondering what kind of experience the younger man had had in these kinds of areas. Evidently someone had made him more confident with his kissing, so he had not spent the last twenty years entirely alone. He was certain that Mycroft had cared for no-one else the way he cared about him - had his encounters been limited to dispassionate courtesans and young women who wanted nothing more than the chance to bear a child to the Imperial family? It was clear that no-one had cared enough to offer to do _this_ for him.

He smiled at the thought, his lips burrowing into the dip underneath the head of his lover's erection. No-one else would get the chance, now. All the things Mycroft had not yet experienced were his and his alone.

When he fixed a wet palm around the base of Mycroft's arousal to keep it still, the man drew in a sharp breath and propped himself up on the elbow that wasn't engaged in Lestrade's hair to watch him, eyes wide and dark with arousal. Lestrade stroked him slowly, spreading the saliva around with a slow smirk. He licked his lips and winked cheekily.

Mycroft began to chuckle, but choked on the noise when Lestrade fixed his lips around his arousal and slid them all the way down to his fingers, enjoying the sensation of the velvety hardness sliding across the roof of his mouth. It had been _years_ since he had done this, and he had to admit that it was a fantasy he had played over in his head so many times it felt as though he had already done it.

The other man's reactions, though, he could not have imagined in his wildest dreams. Mycroft stroked his hair and whimpered and gasped, as though he could barely believe his body was capable of what was coursing through it. Lestrade stroked and licked, then hollowed his cheeks and _sucked_, setting up a rhythm while keeping his eyes fixed on his lover's.

Mycroft's gasps quickly became desperate, his legs twitching around Lestrade's chest, his body tightening again as his eyes fell closed, clearly afraid to relax. Lestrade pulled off, exaggerating the sucking, popping noise when the member finally left his mouth.

"Mycroft," he said quietly, waiting for his lover's eyes to meet his own again. "It is all right. Let go."

The younger man made a strangled sort of noise that eventually turned into a whine of, "But I…"

Lestrade kissed the slit of his prick gently, licking away the fluid dripping from it. "We have all day, and all night, and all the rest of our lives. Just let go."

Mycroft sighed, letting his eyes slide closed again and his legs relax. Lestrade watched him until he nodded slowly, then bent back to his work.

It wasn't long before the soft gasps turned into words. "Gregory," he said urgently, his fingers pulling in Lestrade's hair to try and ease him away. Lestrade made a disagreeing noise and kept his head exactly where it was. "I will… I… ah! _Greg!_"

He wasn't sure whether the other man had intended to cry out the abbreviated form of his name, or whether the last half of the word had simply been forgotten in the pleasure apparently clawing its way out of his lover's body, but he couldn't hope to know until he had soothed the man, pinning his hips and thighs to the bed to avoid being hit by any flailing limbs. The sound of his nickname from Mycroft's mouth was odd, but he thought he could get used to it. He smiled to himself as he finally pulled away from his lover's arousal as it softened.

"Gregory," Mycroft whimpered, letting go of his hair to cup his chin instead. "Thank you."

Lestrade gave him his most smug and satisfied grin. "You are very welcome."

Mycroft made a brief struggle to sit up, then collapsed back onto the bed in a heap. "You," he said, rolling over to face Lestrade as he crawled back up the bed, his own arousal returning to the fore, hot and heavy between his legs. "Tell me what you want. Anything."

He huffed out a short breath and picked the delicate hand from his chin. "Surround me with you," he pleaded, dragging the hand down his torso and replacing it on his erection. "Hold me close and touch me." Mycroft complied with a soft smile, wrapping one hand tightly around his back and drawing him in against his chest. The hand on his prick started stroking - it wasn't perfect, wasn't how he liked to touch himself, but for now it was more than enough. There would be all the time in the world to perfect each other's techniques later, and that little piece of knowledge shot him even closer to his edge.

"Talk to me," Lestrade begged, clutching his lover's arms and burying his face in his chest. "Use your voice, Mycroft, please."

The younger man hesitated. "What should I say?" he asked.

Lestrade gasped as his lover's palm swept over the exposed head of his penis. "Anything," he forced out. "Just words, talk, I…"

Mycroft shushed him quietly, kissing the top of his head. "Just relax, Gregory, I will take care of you now," he said quietly. "I love you. You look so incredible like this - I have imagined falling asleep in your arms every night for an eternity. Sometimes it was the only thing that would let me sleep. Am I touching you the way you want, my love?"

Lestrade let a whine escape his lips. "Tighter," he requested, gasping and squeezing Mycroft's arms when he complied. "Keep talking."

The younger man chuckled gently. "As you wish. Will you teach me how to… please you with my mouth? As you did? I would like to do that to you, to make you feel the way that you made me feel - I felt as though I would burst apart with pleasure, as though it laced my blood with fire and burned through my veins. I want to know what you taste like, where the most sensitive parts of your skin are. I want to know the most intimate secrets of your body, and I want you to know mine. I hope that you are comfortable in this bed, Gregory, because it may be days before I am satisfied that I know enough to let you leave it."

He chuckled. "I have no intention of allowing either of us to move from this spot for quite some time - _oh_," he confirmed, his hips stuttering into Mycroft's hands at a particular twisting stroke. "Let me push into your hand," he said quickly, stilling Mycroft's fist and moving his hips instead, thrusting against the prominent hipbone in front of him, feeling the dip and curve of Mycroft's beautiful body. _"Fuck_, Mycroft, please, I - oh, _oh!_"

Mycroft held him even tighter as he climaxed, like he was trying to stop him from shaking into pieces. Lestrade's awareness narrowed to his groin and his forehead, where he could feel a pair of thin, parted lips pressing and panting warm breaths against him, until the blinding pleasure faded and he could gasp in shaky breaths, coming back to himself still wrapped in _Mycroft._

"Thank you," he whispered when it was over, only the ripples of aftershocks passing through him.

Mycroft kissed his forehead gently. "I love you," he replied.

Lestrade smiled. "I love you, too."

The elder Holmes relaxed slightly, letting him go until they could arrange themselves on the bed, facing each other with their hands clasped together between them. "I have not been with anyone else, you know," Lestrade said quietly. "I mean, after you. I tried - I thought it might make the memories of you less overwhelming. But it only made them worse, so I stopped before anything really happened."

Mycroft smiled. "I am… afraid I cannot say the same," he replied, bringing their joined hands to his lips and kissing them in silent apology. "Not for years, not since Sherlock took the Empire, but I… well, I was seventeen, as you said. I thought perhaps you affected me so wildly because _everything_ was stimulating, so I allowed other people to seduce me - men and women, I was the heir to the Empire, I did not have far to look. No-one ever made me feel anything like what you did, _do_, what you always have even when I barely see you."

Lestrade sighed and shifted himself closer to his lover, throwing one leg possessively over both of his. "It does not matter," he said firmly. "I believe we both agree that both our days of being intimate with _other people_ are over. There is no-one for me but you, and no-one for you but me, not ever."

He looked up, frowning fiercely, daring Mycroft to disagree with him but not believing that he would. Sure enough, the younger man was frowning as though the suggestion of _other people _made his stomach turn. "Not ever," he agreed quietly, squeezing Lestrade's hand. "Not anymore."

They lay in silence for long minutes, until Lestrade's eyes began to droop closed and his body to relax. Just as he was coming to terms with the fact that he was falling asleep, however, the image of Mycroft after John's defeat of the criminal flashed in front of his eyes.

"Mycroft?" he ventured, opening them once more to find his lover's blinking sleepily back. Mycroft hummed lazily. "Why now? Why acknowledge this, why tell me you love me now? What happened?"

Mycroft frowned. "I thought that it was obvious," he said slowly. "I saw what Sherlock has with John Watson. Watson was in that arena, on his knees, with his opponent simply toying with him. Then he looked up at Sherlock and found the resolve to fight back. That was when I knew that he loved him, and then… when I went out for some air I saw them together. The thing that always held me back with you was that I did not believe that I could ever be _certain_ that you loved me, that you wanted me, that you would stop me if I did anything you were uncomfortable with, because our positions in society traditionally demand that you do anything I ask. I saw Sherlock and Watson together and I did not see that. I saw two men on equal footing. And then I realised that I have _always_ been certain that you love me, just as certain as I have always been that I love you."

He slid his legs through Lestrade's and rolled forwards on the bed, pushing Lestrade onto his back so that his head rested on Lestrade's chest, his warm body moulded to his side. "And I realised that all I _ever _had to do was tell you. I am sorry," Mycroft apologised again. "I wasted twenty years in which we could have had this."

"Do not be," Lestrade ordered him. "This needed to be perfect. The worries that you had, you were right to have them, and we needed to wait until you could be certain. And I would have waited until the day I died for this, and it would have been worth it."

Lestrade wrapped his arms around Mycroft's shoulders and squeezed. "Just never keep your feelings from me again," he commanded, but he knew that the warning was unnecessary. He smiled. It sounded as though he owed John and Sherlock a fairly big favour.

"I think perhaps I ought to give up the position of lanista," he decided. "There is someone else who needs the position more than I do."

He felt Mycroft smile wryly into his ribcage. "Whatever will you do with your time?" he said idly.

Lestrade stroked down the length of his lover's back, feeling goosebumps rise under his fingers. His smile widened until it almost hurt his cheeks. _This_ could be his entire life now. For the entire _rest_ of his life. He shimmied down the bed until Mycroft's head rested on his shoulder and he could look him in the eyes and wink. Finally, _finally_, he could have this, and he was not going to let a _job_ get in his way.

"I can think of a few things," he said lasciviously.

**END**

* * *

**A/N: **

The wording of the prayer from Ovid that Mycroft gifts to Lestrade was taken from .

The 'Vigiles' were a group of soldiers set to patrol the streets and apprehend criminals - basically the equivalent of the police. We never named them in _Infamia_, sorry about that.

Gladiatorial terminology: (all explained in _Infamia_ if you read that) A _dimachaerus_ (like John) fought with two short swords, or _gladi_i, and no shield. A _Thraece_ (like Lestrade) fought with a sword and a round shield, and consequently the style was more popular. Funnily enough, people liked having a shield. A volunteer gladiator - more common around the middle of the Ancient Roman era as the games reached their peak of popularity - was called an _auctoratus_. Any gladiator who fought in the arena was logically termed an _arenarius._

Thanks again to everyone who's followed the _Infamia_ 'verse. All your support has been _so_ appreciated. This is probably the last you'll hear from us in this 'verse, so goodnight unto you all!


End file.
